Then we were floating. Such are the visions which proffer great cornucopias full of fruit to the solitary traveller, or murmur in his ear like sirens lolloping away on the green sea waves, or are dashed in his face like bunches of roses, or rise to the surface like pale faces which fishermen flounder through floods to embrace.
Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway. (via violentwavesofemotion)
Suppose the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is seen by other people - what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in.
Virginia Woolf, Between The Acts. (via violentwavesofemotion)
It was a way things had sometimes, she thought, lingering for a moment and looking at the long glittering windows and the plume of blue smoke: they became unreal. So coming back from a journey, or after an illness, before habits had spun themselves among the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was so startling; felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then.
Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.
You’re spending your life, talking, writing things, getting bills through, missing what seems natural. Still, there’s the mind of the widow — the affections; those you leave untouched. But you waste you own. I would point out that a human being is not a set of compartments, but an organism. Imagination, Miss; use your imagination; that’s where you fail. Conceive the world as a whole.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out.
She had taken no part in the talk; no one had spoken to her; but she had listened to every word that was said. Sitting lightly upright she seemed to be dealing with the world as she chose; the enormous solid globe spun round this way and that beneath her fingers.
Virginia Woolf,The Voyage Out.